


Call It Fate, Call It Karma

by glasskites



Category: The Strokes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Divorce, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasskites/pseuds/glasskites
Summary: After the recording of 'Comedown Machine', the band goes on an unofficial hiatus. Albert tries to focus on his own third album, but when Nick unexpectedly turns up in New York, things start getting complicated.
Relationships: Albert Hammond Jr./Nick Valensi
Kudos: 6





	Call It Fate, Call It Karma

**Author's Note:**

> This starts off in 2014, after Comedown Machine and before Albert moves to LA. This is an alternate history of sorts where I'm playing fast and loose with actual events and dates, so don't mind the inaccuracies too much. Names of significant others/wives/girlfriends have been changed.

2014  
  


“Hey, asshole!”

There’s someone shouting this behind Albert - hardly unusual on the streets of Manhattan - but it isn’t the insult that stops him in his tracks. No, it’s not an insult because there’s zero anger or hostility in its tone. Instead the person sounds thrilled, so immensely delighted that even Albert’s fellow hardened New Yorkers pause to throw curious glances over their shoulders.

But Albert stops because he knows that voice, his skin prickling with recognition. In fact, he’ll know that voice until the day he dies.

He turns around and it’s a beaming Nick, head and shoulders above everyone else. His bedraggled hair is all the way down past his shoulders now, the circles under his eyes so dark that he looks like he’s been punched twice. He’s wearing some ratty leather jacket and skinny jeans with holes large enough to fit a fist through. In his hands is a crumpled paper bag, probably from one of the bodegas nearby.

“Jesus Christ!” Nick flings his arms around a stunned Albert, hugging the breath out of him. “Fuck, it’s good to see you, man.”

Albert’s just blinking at him, because: “Wait--why aren’t you in LA?”

Nick huffs out a laugh, punching him in the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you don’t fuckin’ recognise me.” His 10-megawatt smile is starting to fade, so Albert mentally slaps himself.

“Nah, man, c’mon.” Albert forces out a laugh, and Nick’s grin is back in full force. “It’s just-- I didn’t know you were in town, y’know? You caught me by surprise.” Something dawns on Albert and now it’s his turn to punch Nick in his bony shoulder. “Wait, what the fuck-- you didn’t even tell me you were comin’ here! Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nick rubs his shoulder, sheepish with guilt. “I meant to shoot you a text, I swear, but it was all really last minute. I literally landed at JFK, like, three hours ago.”

They’re still standing in the middle of the sidewalk and getting all sorts of dirty looks from passing New Yorkers so Albert grabs Nick’s elbow, steering them both towards Bleecker Street. “If you’d called, I coulda picked you up from the airport,” Albert says, ignoring how his steps feel unsteady so he stares down at his feet. _Their_ feet, side by side. Albert’s wearing his nice loafers while Nick’s white sneakers are scuffed to hell and back, covered with mystery stains and marks. Back in the day, when both he and Nick were young and stupid, it would have maybe been booze, coke and puke. However - given where they both are at this point in their lives - it’s more likely to be dog food or kid drool.

“ Nah s’okay, I took a cab. No biggie.” Nick’s still smiling, radiating joy so infectious that it makes Albert’s chest heavy with an unknown ache. “Where you headed now?”

“Lunch,” Albert says, glancing at his watch. “Er, a late lunch I guess. Hey, you wanna come with?”

Nick slings an arm around Albert’s shoulders. He smells like cigarettes and stale airplane air. “Lead the way, my man.”

***

They end up in a hole-in-the-wall deli in Alphabet City that makes Albert’s favourite sandwiches. Even after all these years, Nick still eats like a bird: pecking listlessly at his food, getting easily distracted, leaving crumbs and shit all over the place. He’s talking about a collaboration with some engineer in Silver Lake to create a new type of pedalboard, and for the most part Albert listens. He listens, and eats, and watches as Nick’s fingers fidget restlessly for a cigarette. The only other person in the place is the hipster cashier, who is clearly attempting to look bored and unaffected but Albert’s already caught the kid trying to sneak a few stealth shots of him and Nick eating.

More people are starting to trickle in - classes must have let out in one of the nearby NYU buildings - so Albert argues with Nick over who gets to pay before Nick shoves him aside and hands the hipster cashier two crumpled twenties. “Don’t take his fuckin’ money,” Nick warns the kid, as Albert tries and fails to sneak in his share. “Not if you want your tip.”

“Just the tip,” Albert mutters, and Nick elbows him with a guffaw. Before they leave, the hipster kid finally gets over himself and asks for an autograph. _Best PASTRAMI in town!!_ Nick scrawls on a napkin, underlying the word ‘best’ three times.

Albert reads it over his shoulder. “You lying fuck,” he chortles. “You don’t even like pastrami.”

“But you do,” Nick says it so matter-of-factly that it makes Albert’s throat feel unexpectedly tender.

They step out of the deli, and it’s not even a second before Nick is already lighting up, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Albert is pretty sure Nick has shit to do, but they’re both ignoring their phones and watches. However, it’s not as easy to ignore the darkening sky, or the gradual chill in the wind that was previously absent.

It’s Nick who speaks first, his voice scratchy and reluctant. “You doing anything tomorrow?” He still hasn’t even told Albert why he’s in town, and Albert hasn’t asked.

“Heading into the studio.” Albert accepts the cigarette that Nick automatically hands him, borne out of years of habit. The unthinking way he leans in for Nick’s lighter is pure habit, too. “The third album’s not going well, I tell ya.”

Nick looks personally offended, as though Albert has just insulted his music instead of his own. “Not possible, man. Not with those magic Hammond fingers.”

“More like magic ham fingers,” Albert scoffs with a sigh. “It’s all a mess and I-- I can’t quite figure out how to put it all together, y’know? Once you hear it for yourself, you’ll agree that it sounds like a sorry pile of shit. “He pauses with a self-deprecatory laugh. “Made by a sorry pile of shit.”

“Hey, careful there.” Nick’s tone sounds a bit sharp. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

The glance they exchange over the cigarette smoke and evening chill is loaded with sentiment and awkwardness. It’s been years since Nick called Albert his best friend, years since they were more than that. Albert looks away first, gives them an easy out: “Well, he sounds like an asshole.”

“He is,” Nick agrees amicably. “But I love his sorry ass anyway. For some reason.”

This time, the look they exchange is sneaky and humorous. “Fuck you,” Albert huffs out as Nick finally starts laughing. They both finish their cigarettes, Albert flicking his away while Nick crushes his against the sole of his battered shoe. “So where you staying? Your mom’s?”

To his surprise, Nick shakes his head, a faint frown creasing his brow. “Nah, I got a room at the Waldorf.”

“What? Why?” Albert is taken aback. He’s all too familiar with Nick’s deep hatred for hotels, after having spent half a lifetime living out of them.

“Didn’t want her to worry.” Nick’s frown deepens as he starts scratching the back of his head. “Actually I, um-- I’m in the city to see my lawyer.”

“Lawyer? What happened?” Dread stirs in the pit of Albert’s stomach, and he’s almost afraid of the answer.

“Annette and I, uh--” Here Nick hesitates, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he clears his throat a few times. “We’re splitting up.”

All Albert manages is a heartfelt, “ _Fuck_.”


End file.
